by Sabina Manea
Lucia proceeded to furnish Walter with a list of the names and relationships between them.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more, or the boss here is going to have my head on a platter,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘It’s fine, Lulu, I think I get the gist of it,’ said Walter.
He had an impish glint in his eye that suggested he was looking forward to the impending caper a great deal more than he wanted to let on. Despite his squeaky-clean demeanour, Lucia had always suspected that deep down he had an adventurous streak that simply didn’t get the opportunity to be aired. Well, she was giving it a good chance now.
‘God help us all,’ groaned the inspector with mock-horror. ‘You’d better pray the Super doesn’t catch wind of this, Lucia.’
‘You know as well as I do that she doesn’t give a rat’s arse about how we get to the bottom of things, so long as we deliver,’ retorted Lucia with a wide grin.
Chapter 14
‘Miles Donovan and Marie Cassel. Time to work out what those two are all about, hey, Lucia?’
Lucia didn’t answer at first, engrossed as she was in looking up the exact location of Miles Donovan’s address. It was a flat just off Camden High Street. Downstairs, the premises were occupied by garishly painted accountants’ offices, a nauseous green that didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the quality of the professional services on offer.
‘Hello? Anybody home?’ Carliss said.
‘Sorry, I was trying to work out where it is we’re supposed to be meeting Miles Donovan. I’m driving, by the way. No ifs, no buts. We’re running late as it is,’ replied Lucia decisively.
The inspector rolled his eyes and gave in. It was going to be a bumpy ride to Camden.
* * *
Standing outside the address, the two detectives surveyed their surroundings before ringing the doorbell. The other side of the street was taken up by a large warehouse with a dirty brick frontage of the kind that populated most of that end of North London. It had gone ten in the morning, but for some unascertained reason the street cleaners had failed to report for duty. The pavement was strewn with a varied selection of empty bottles and food cartons, and a pile of inconveniently placed bin bags took up most of the area around the entrance to Miles Donovan’s building. Lucia stepped gingerly over them and reached for the bell.
‘Hello?’ The voice that answered was croaky, as if just roused from a deep slumber, and unmistakably Antipodean.
‘Good morning, Mr Donovan. Metropolitan Police. We have an appointment to see you.’
There was a pause that seemed longer than the few seconds that it lasted, and finally the disembodied voice replied wearily, ‘Ah yes. Come on up.’
The staircase was as squalid as the exterior suggested: frayed carpets and a lingering smell of stale cooking oil. On the first floor, a scruffy door stood tentatively open. Carliss knocked anyway, out of courtesy. The door opened wide, and they were greeted by a man anywhere between forty and fifty. He was bleary-eyed, as if he’d had several sleepless nights in a row. His greying, thinning hair was matted, and his shirt and trousers looked like they had been worn continuously for a good few days.
‘Mr Donovan? I’m Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss and this is Lucia Steer of the Metropolitan Police. Is now a good time?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in.’
Miles Donovan shuffled back inside, followed by the two detectives. Lucia took a good look around, the way she always did. The flat was little more than a shoebox: a tiny kitchen-diner, a half-open door that only just revealed an unmade bed and another closed door which she surmised to be the bathroom. The wooden floors were heavily scratched, and the curtains hung limply either side of the peeling sash windows. The place had an air of despondency and desolation. Whatever’s the matter with him, wondered Lucia. He didn’t smell of booze, but then it could have been too early, and he had been expecting their visit.
‘Please, have a seat.’ Miles Donovan indicated a greasy-looking sofa.
Lucia and Carliss sat down. They fitted snugly next to each other, seeing that the item of furniture was a small two-seater. The man pulled up a kitchen chair and sat directly opposite them. He studied them with a wary look and tried to squeeze out a lopsided smile. He was evidently nervous. Lucia could see his fingers were shaking, even though he had fastened his hands together on his lap.
Carliss too had obviously registered the interviewee’s state of mind, as he said in a reassuring voice, ‘Mr Donovan, thank you for making the time to see us this morning. It’s nothing to worry about, just a few routine questions so that the coroner can close the case. As I explained on the phone, Genevieve Taylor has been found dead at home. We’re interviewing everyone who knew her or was in close contact with her, as a matter of routine. Can you tell me how you came to be acquainted with Miss Taylor?’
Miles Donovan shifted from side to side in his chair in an attempt to find a comfortable position. He clasped his hands even tighter together before he spoke.
‘I met Genevieve at Aurora Borealis. It’s basically a book club, though it calls itself a literary salon to sound fancier.’
‘How long have you been a member of the salon?’ asked Lucia. She was aware they were likely to have heard the answers to the anodyne questions already, but it was worth asking them again for the sake of gaining more time to work out exactly what sort of person sat in front of them.
‘Must have been three and a half months ago. I can’t remember exactly. Yes, it was December time.’
He didn’t seem very sure of himself, but then again not much in his demeanour screamed certainty. He seemed to be teetering on the edge of something. A breakdown perhaps, Lucia surmised.
‘And how did you find out about it?’ asked Lucia.
‘A work colleague mentioned it. She used to be a member but quit when she moved out of London. I thought it might be good to get to know some people, make some friends, you know.’
‘What was your relationship with the deceased?’ asked Carliss rather bluntly, leaving the interviewee to make what he wished of the question.
The punt had the desired effect. Miles Donovan sat up a lot straighter and blinked profusely. Despite his grey pallor, Lucia could see he was starting to blush.
‘Relationship? I wouldn’t call it that. We were just friends. No, not even that. Acquaintances. We chatted a bit at the salon, had a few drinks with the others down the local pub. That sort of stuff, you know.’
It suddenly came to Lucia that Miles Donovan was another one who hadn’t asked how Genevieve had died. Carliss hadn’t imparted that information on the phone when arranging the appointment.
‘What is it that you do, Mr Donovan?’ Lucia asked.
‘I’m an office caretaker…’ Miles Donovan paused, searching for words. ‘Actually, I was. I’m, er, between jobs at the moment.’
That explains it, Lucia thought to herself. The lost, dishevelled air, the mess in the flat; the man was unemployed.
‘And you’re from New Zealand, is that right? Like Genevieve Taylor?’ continued Lucia.
‘Yes. It’s a big country though. It’s not like we knew each other from before.’
‘Genevieve Taylor died sometime during the evening of Thursday the 18th of March,’ Carliss said. ‘She was found on the following Friday morning. Where were you on the evening of that Thursday?’
Miles Donovan grabbed his phone and scrolled through it. ‘Here, at home. Do I have to answer that? Am I under some sort of suspicion?’ A bead of sweat had formed on his hairline and was trickling slowly down to the side of his cheek.
‘Not at all, Mr Donovan. These are just hoops we have to jump through for completeness,’ replied Carliss. ‘Anyone with you?’
‘No, just me, on my own. I’m divorced from my wife, and there aren’t any children. I haven’t got any family here either.’
Carliss continued, ‘What was she like, Genevieve Taylor?’
‘Nice. Quite quiet. Friendly
though, always with a polite smile and a kind thing to say,’ replied the man.
‘And the other members of the salon? Did you know them at all?’ asked the inspector.
Miles Donovan scratched the greasy hair on his head. ‘Yeah, a bit, inasmuch as you can get to know anyone in the space of a few months. Darius, he runs the show. He’s not a bad bloke underneath, but he likes keeping up the act.’
‘What act would that be?’ asked Lucia.
‘Some sort of bohemian. Misunderstood artist and all that. I think he used to be in the military. He mentioned something in passing but wouldn’t elaborate. Oh, and he had the hots for Genevieve. Big time.’
‘And what did she make of that?’ asked Lucia.
‘She didn’t seem too bothered. Didn’t encourage him either. She was with that Italian guy, Edoardo. He’s alright. Bit arrogant, but he’s always got some good banter going. Happy to buy a few rounds down the pub too, which is always good news. Marie wasn’t too happy about it though.’
‘Marie Cassel?’ interjected Carliss. ‘Do you mean she didn’t like it that Darius was after Genevieve Taylor?’
‘Yeah, Marie and Darius are an item. When I say, “an item”, I mean sort of. They seem to be together one minute and apart the next. She’s another artist type. Sculptor, I think. She’s got a real temper on her, and so does he. There was one time when we all happened to arrive a bit early – me, Rosie, Genevieve and Edoardo – and we could hear Darius and Marie from the street. They were having the mother of all rows, screaming, throwing and breaking things. The place was a bombsite when we came in. Darius apologised, and we helped him clear up. Marie was absolutely furious. She called him a cheating bastard and stormed out. But it was short-lived. Next time, she was all sweetness and light, fawning over him as if nothing had happened.’
Miles Donovan had clearly enjoyed relaying the story. His eyes looked brighter, more alive, and his mood had picked up considerably. Even his hands had stopped shaking.
‘And what’s Rosie like?’ asked Lucia. The interview had been very enlightening indeed.
‘Rosie? She’s a good sort. No-nonsense type. She and Genevieve seemed quite close, at least closer than Genevieve was to anyone else. Apart from Edoardo, I suppose.’
‘Thank you, Mr Donovan, you’ve been very helpful,’ Carliss said. ‘We haven’t got any other questions for today, but we’ll be in touch if we need anything else from you. Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out.’
As soon as they were out of earshot and safely seated in Lucia’s Spider, Carliss asked, ‘What do you make of him then?’
‘A bit off, don’t you think? I can’t put my finger on it though. At first, I thought it was the whole dishevelled look and the nervousness, but that seems to be down to his losing his job.’
‘But there’s something else?’
‘Yes, there’s something else. I don’t know, it’s the way he spoke about Genevieve. I sensed that something in his tone was a bit pointed. I haven’t the foggiest what it means though. I could be imagining it all,’ replied Lucia with some frustration. She really couldn’t make sense of what she instinctively felt, so it was best to leave it at that for the time being.
‘Alright. Interesting what he said about Marie Cassel, I thought. She must have been dead jealous of Genevieve. Edoardo da Carrara hinted at it too. I wonder what she’s got to say for herself. We’d better head over to Whitechapel, or we’re going to be late,’ said Carliss with an anxious glance at his watch.
Chapter 15
Redline Space, the art gallery where Marie Cassel plied her trade, was on Whitechapel High Street. The location was well outside DCI Carliss’s comfort zone, and Lucia was amused at the look on his face as her zippy Spider meandered south-east, first past King’s Cross and then down to the brutalist beauty of the Barbican, towards the ramshackle mix of corporate buildings, concrete monstrosities and leftover slums that was Aldgate, finally arriving in Whitechapel. If you downed a large gin and squinted, you could just about argue that the High Street retained some of the village thoroughfare feel last seen when Jack the Ripper was on the loose. Otherwise, the place was a cacophony of vehicles and messy shopfronts, some more salubrious than others, and others blissfully impervious altogether to gentrification or good taste.
The inspector winced as they sank deeper and deeper into East London. Kentish Town born and bred, he was suspicious of crossing the well-established boundary of the A1, which cut straight through Islington and gave way to the barbarian lands of Hackney.
‘The coppers around here must have their hands full,’ he remarked.
‘No worse than Camden,’ replied Lucia. ‘It’s not like the bad sorts are any different. Drugs, knives, the lot. It’s the same all over London, and you know it.’
Carliss arranged his features into something that resembled reluctant agreement. ‘Where’s this gallery then?’
‘Nearly there. Just have to find somewhere to park first.’
As Lucia pulled up just outside, she remarked to herself that at least you could get a conveniently located parking space in East London. The art gallery itself was nothing more than a large shopfront with a garish blue sign that flickered ominously, as if the electricity supply were unreliable. Lucia reasoned that the effect must have been intentional. Through the window she could see an array of paintings, sculptures and installations of varying artistic merit, not that artistic merit could have realistically been an available defence for some of them. The collective word must have been ‘avant-garde’, though to Lucia it was clear they were more about initial unacceptability rather than aesthetic innovation.
The detectives rang the bell and waited. Before long a woman in her mid to late twenties ambled slowly towards the door and let them in. She was about the same height as Lucia, average to tall, and looked like a modern copy of Brigitte Bardot at the height of her game: all legs, cleavage, long blonde hair and lightly tanned skin, at sharp odds with the cold March drizzle that had reliably started outside. She was dressed in a dusty pink playsuit complete with immaculate white trainers of an achingly fashionable variety. The woman should be sunning herself on the French Riviera, not be stuck in this godforsaken freezing place, thought Lucia, wishing she was doing exactly that.
‘Oh, hello. Metropolitan Police. We have an appointment to see Marie Cassel. Could you let her know we’re here, please?’ asked Carliss, nearly stumbling over his words once he had managed to pick up his jaw from the floor. The girl had clearly made a strong impression on him.
‘I’m Marie Cassel,’ the girl replied in a gravelly, heavily accented voice so low it was almost comical. ‘Please, come in.’
Lucia and Carliss followed her across the exhibition space and through a door at the back that revealed a small office. They were invited to sit down on one side of a table, while Marie Cassel squeezed herself in a chair the other side. It was certainly very cosy.
‘Miss Cassel, I’m DCI David Carliss, and this is my colleague Lucia Steer. We have a few questions for you about the recent death of Genevieve Taylor.’
‘So horrible. I can’t believe she is dead. You said she died at home – how?’ asked Marie.
The look on her face hinted more at fascinated disgust than grief, Lucia assessed.
Carliss looked sheepish but decided to come clean, to some extent at least. ‘She was found dead in the bath. I’m afraid I can’t say much more.’
Marie scrunched up her shapely nose. ‘That is horrible,’ she repeated. ‘She drowned, no? These things happen.’ She leaned forward, all of a sudden animated. ‘Or, do you think, it was suicide? She took her own life?’
‘As I said, I can’t comment,’ said Carliss, more firmly this time.
He should know better than to get distracted drooling over some cute little piece of skirt, thought Lucia with a hint of jealousy that she did her best to suppress.
The inspector continued, ‘I understand you knew Genevieve Taylor socially. You frequented Aurora Borealis together, d
idn’t you? What was she like?’
‘Yes, she came to Aurora Borealis.’ Marie pronounced the name of the salon in a manner so affected it was almost incomprehensible. ‘Genevieve? Yes, she was OK. Very pretty.’ This last comment was spat out as if it were an insult. ‘I didn’t really have much to do with her. She was with Edoardo.’
Lucia thought for a few seconds and decided to go in straight for the kill. ‘Darius Major, your boyfriend. Did it bother you that he fancied Genevieve?’
Carliss visibly winced but had the sense to keep quiet.
Marie Cassel narrowed her eyes menacingly and pursed her lips. ‘Hmm. He didn’t fancy her. Not properly. He just couldn’t help – how do you say – ogling her. He’s a man, and men are weak.’ This she directed at the DCI, who, suddenly put on the spot, shrank a little in his seat. ‘She pretended to be such an ingénue, with the goody-goody face and the nice polite words for everyone. It was just a ruse to get men. She liked the attention. I’m a good judge of character, you know. I see what people are really like underneath. She was a vain little bitch.’
Wow, thought Lucia. She hadn’t expected this much vitriol without at least some preliminary prompting. Miles Donovan had been right; Marie Cassel did have a temper on her. But did it follow that she had the makings of a cold-blooded killer?
‘There was obviously no love lost between you two, Miss Cassel,’ observed Carliss rather limply, now he’d made an appearance out of his corner. ‘Where were you on the evening of Thursday the 18th of March?’
‘Ah yes, that’s when she died. You said so on the phone. Well, if you suspect someone killed her, it wasn’t me. I was with Darius at his house, and he can confirm it,’ retorted Marie defiantly as she crossed her shapely knees and gave the inspector a brazen smirk. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a very important client, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can help you with, detectives.’
